


All I Do Is Cry All Day: Boo Hoo, Boo Hoo

by crowleyshouseplant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:32:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is revealed that Sam Winchester cries over onions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Do Is Cry All Day: Boo Hoo, Boo Hoo

**Author's Note:**

> Rory and Cody from tumblr requested a fic with specified items and this is what I delivered (submitted anonymously, of course!)
> 
> I am ridiculously proud of this fic because a) I wrote it from the main characters of the show (haha) and b) I feel like I hit a really nice chord between the absurd and the sincere which gives the piece an oddly tragic feel (maybe). Also, not sure how well this shows up because I have the emotional range of a teaspoon, but this was supposed to be wincestiel, pre-slash.

Sam hadn’t meant to drink—always felt so sluggish after, bad for business, especially with an apocalypse looming and all. But Dean was in the shower and he had just stripped on his way to the dingy motel bathroom after swaggering in through the door with the alcohol—just peeled off his leather jacket first which he at least slung over the back of the chair because it was Dad’s, then shrugged out of his plaid shirt which he let just flutter behind him, a crumpled mass on the floor, and finally slipped out of his t-shirt like it was a goddamned second skin, leaving it behind like he always left his goddamned toenail clippings in the sink.

Sam scowled after Dean.

If the room had been bigger, he’d have managed to get out of his pants and socks before making it to the bathroom.

Normally, Sam would have just picked up after Dean because it was what he always did. But not tonight.

Tonight, Sam was tired of picking up Dean’s stinky, dirty laundry.

So he didn’t. Instead, he decided to piss his brother off—just like Dean did all the fucking time to him—by unexpectedly breaking into the alcohol early.

He tipped the bottle of cheap whiskey into his mouth because if Dean didn’t have to get a glass for his morning milk, then Sam sure as hell didn’t need to get a glass for whiskey.

Besides. Sam didn’t feel like doing dishes either.

So he drank alcohol instead.

He liked the way it made him warm in his belly instead of that dull empty wanting sort of ache which—and then the door creaked open, vomiting a cloud of steam, and Dean was there in a t-shirt and boxers, hair spiky and wet.

“Couldn’t wait up, dude?”

Sam shrugged. “Didn’t know I was supposed to ask for permission.” Before he could stop himself, he punctuated the sentence with a “Jerk.” He gulped down some more alcohol, straight from the bottle, his stomach doing that weird twisting thing that Sam didn’t like to think about because it was over and done and maybe Dean could at least pretend to forget about it—

“Bitch,” Dean said.

Sam knew he was smiling like a goddamn fool but he didn’t care. He licked his lips instead, handed the bottle to his brother who took it in hand, swigging it down, throat working up and down as he looked at him sidewise, lips curved upwards in a smile.

So, while Dean drank, Sam scooped up Dean’s dirty clothes and shoved them into the wrinkled pillow case they used as a hamper before settling at the table across from Dean.

“Remember what happened last time you got drunk before me,” Dean said, looking at him from under his cocked eyebrows, which always meant Dean was angling at some other point, something too emotional for him to talk about. His tell to avoid a chick flick moment, Sam knew.

So he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, smiled at Dean. “You’re bossy,” he said. “And short.”

Dean flickered a frown at him, tipped the bottle backwards.

Sam wanted to tell Dean that he wouldn’t ask something like that of him ever again. Wished he hadn’t lost perspective and gotten so drunk—asking the same things that Dad had always asked of him, turning into Dad without ever even realizing fuck. Sam gestured for the bottle again and Dean slid it over towards him. “We’re brothers,” he said. “Always will be.”

Dean got up from the table, and Sam was afraid for one wild moment that he was gonna leave and flop on the bed with the magic fingers or something when Sam just needed him to share a drink with him, like he used to have done before—. But Dean opened the fridge, pulled out some day old pizza, and set it down in the middle of the table. “The eldest, and don’t you forget it, Sammy,” he said, pointing to his chest and chomping down on a slice.

Sam watched him chew. Watched him lick the tomato paste and the grease from his fingers. “You know what you are, Dean?” Sam said, words heavy and warm on his tongue, buzzing against his teeth.

“What?”

“A hobbit.” Sam’s laugh broke against his teeth before he could stop it. “You’re like Frodo. Frodo Baggins. Because Frodo lives,” and Sam bust out laughing again, cradling his eyes in his palms, seeing Ruby opening that door for the first time when they had been expecting the pizza man and instead of some brat-faced kid, there had been Dean solid and whole and flesh and blood.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Couldn’t I have been the one who killed the troll?”

Sam blinked at Dean.

Dean raised his arms. “Hey, I read.”

Sam straightened in his chair. “We should call Cas.”

Dean shifted deeper in his chair, arms folded close to his chest. “He’s busy. On his own search for God or what the fuck ever.”

Sam thumped the table with his palm. “Exactly. A quest, Dean. He’s on a  _quest._ And if you’re Frodo, then that means he’s part of the Fellowship, okay? Which means he should be here.”

“Sam—we can’t invite him over.”

“Why not?”

Dean gestured at the alcohol, hands almost half-formed into fists. “We can’t invite someone over and then not let them have the alcohol.”

Sam leaned into the table so hard the edge bit into his hipbones. “Dude,” he said. “He’s an angel. He’s not going to care about getting drunk.”

“You didn’t see him,” Dean said. “I did.”

“2014, Dean. It’s not 2014. And that’s not gonna happen, okay? That 2014—” and Sam vaguely realized that his arms were flung wide out, fingers shaping words that his tongue couldn’t form, couldn’t carve out of his alcohol buzzed brain apparently— “that 2014 isn’t going to happen, okay?” He buttoned his lips up tight. “You gotta believe me man, 2014’s not going to happen. That Cas?” He swiped his palm down his front. “Erased. Gone. Never gonna happen.” And he frowned, and he leaned forward towards Dean and he wished the jerk would look into his eyes. “Ever.”

Dean was silent.

“Gonna prove it,” Sam said, recklessly, dipping his hand into his pockets for his cellphone. He was vaguely disappointed when Dean just shook his head, didn’t even fight him, as he texted Cas to come on down and see them at the motel.

Seconds passed and then there was the flurry of air. “You called?”

“Praying’s out of vogue,” Sam giggled, burying his head into his forearms, remembering that time he had actually prayed every day as he wished the skin under his eyes didn’t twitch so much, stiffening and tautening, like his sinus cavities had gone crazy with pressure. His voice came out muffled: “You know we’re your fellowship, right, Cas?”

There was silence, so Sam figured that Cas must be giving some kind of question-marked look because Dean said, “I don’t know, man. I guess this is supposed to be Rivendell or something.”

Sam lifted his head then, hair a fringe around his face as he gazed up at Cas bundled up in his trench coat, blue tie still crooked and Sam wouldn’t ever fix it for the world, hand resting on the table. 

“I don’t understand that reference, Dean.”

The laughter came up out of Sam, gripped his throat, made him belly flop against the table, fingers scrabbling across the wood, towards Castiel’s fingers splayed open, clutching them tight in his own as he spat out in a strangled falsetto, “What’s taters, Precious? What’s taters!”

And maybe Dean was starting to feel the alcohol too because he sing-songed, “Boil em, mash em, stick em in a stew.”

Castiel didn’t try to take his hand away, just leaned in closer over Sam. “You’re inebriated.” Then, still without taking his hand away, looked over at Dean. “You both are.”

“Ya think?” Dean said, slow drawling smile.

“What did you call me for?”

Dean just shrugged. Fucking typical. Even with alcohol he had the emotional range of a teaspoon.

“Your company,” Sam said. He put his other hand over Castiel’s, just like Castiel had done that first time they had met, gripped his hand tight even though— “We’re your fellowship, Cas.” He stumbled up out of his chair, lurched toward Castiel, muscles thrumming with alcohol, reaching for Cas because Cas had to know, he had to hear this, but Cas leaned back so Sam settled for looping his arm around Castiel’s shoulders while his other hand pulled him close by the lapel of his coat. “Having a fellowship means you’re not alone, Cas.” He fumbled at Cas’s collar, at his shirt, at his blue tie so that his fingers could feel the warm solid flesh of Cas, so that Cas would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he and Dean were there, that they were real because it wasn’t like Sam was dumb, even if he was drunk—he knew angels weren’t flesh and blood, not like he and Dean were, and maybe sometimes he forgot that, and maybe sometimes that meant that maybe Cas did too, only the other way around, and if they forgot who they were, what they were made of, then maybe they would forget that they were ever real at all, that they could ever be more than the crap they happened to be saddled with. “Okay, Cas? Okay?”

Cas stared at him, his forehead puckered, blue eyes wide and open and searching. “Yes, Sam.”

The words were a warm breath against Sam’s face.

“Fuck’s gotten into you?” Dean said, lips at the bottle, either about to take a swig or already worked it down his throat.

Sam didn’t care, sidled away from Cas, reached for it. “Nothing.” He was about to take a sip when he saw Dean catch Cas’s eye, saw his lips mouth    
_chick flick moment._

“You know what?” Sam said, letting the bottle thunk against the table. “Screw you, Precious. Just screw you. What’s gotten into me? I’ll show you, okay.” He went to the cupboard—but they were empty.

Behind him, he heard Dean say, probably to Castiel or maybe just to the space around them,“This should be good.”

He wished they had bread. It would be more appropriate with the wine. But Dean ate the pizza, goddamn fucking pig hobbit person, and the only thing in the mini fridge was just one lone little onion, which must have been left over from a previous inhabitant or swear to god or the devil or any other super-powered dick he was in bizzarro land if Dean had bought it—but he grabbed it anyway, so small in his huge fucking giant palm, and turned to Dean and Cas.

Cas was sitting down now at least. Like he was gonna stay which was good—fellowships stuck together, after all.

“See this, Precious?”

Dean glared at Cas, then swallowed down some alcohol.

“See this, Dean?” Sam said again, because this was important and Dean had to listen.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean finally said and Sam flushed.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed in on the onion.

“Onions,” Sam said, trying to find the words through the warm haze, “aren’t alone, okay? They grow in beds. Garden beds. Together.”

“Yeah huh,” Dean said.

“We are onions, Precious,” Sam said, shoving the onion towards Dean and Castiel both. “We are in this fucking vegetable bed together, okay, as it’s about to be burned alive by some fucking forest fire.” He doesn’t say that they made this bed and now they had to fucking lie in it because it wasn’t as if they had all hoed and plowed that ground till it was torn and bloody.

“Okay, Sammy, whatever you say.”

Sam staggered to Castiel, holding the onion up to him. “See, Cas? You’re an onion too. You’re not a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, Cas, you gotta know that—that you’re an onion, just like the rest of us, okay?”

Cas looked over at Dean, and Dean just shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Sam,” Castiel said as he guided Sam back to his chair.

Sam stared at the onion cradled in his giant hands, the hands that were so fucking huge. The onion skin was already shuffling off, sloughing off under his fucking clumsy hands that destroyed everything they ever touched just like they were ruining this onion. Jessica dead. Madison dead. Fucking world in fucking flames because of Ruby and Lilith.

And then his face did that fucking thing he hated, hurting and crinkling and getting everything wet in front of Dean and Castiel both but he didn’t give a fuck as his fingers dug into the onion flesh, shredding its skin just like Dean’s faith in him unraveled until was gone just fucking gone.

“Come on, Sam, you’re not going to pull Shrek on us, are you, because I don’t do that crap, you know that,” Dean was saying. And then he leaned closer. “Are you—crying?”

Cas tilted his head at him, nose crinkling along its slope.

“No, Dean, I’m not!” Sam said, flourishing the raggedy, tattered onion in the air. “It’s a goddamn onion, what do you think is happening?” He pawed at the flaky bits of onion skin still clinging to his hands because they were always wet, wet from sweat, from the dew-glassed bottles of alcohol, from rubbing his palms against his fucking cheeks. “If we’re onions, this is me, isn’t it.” He flicked one at Dean, tried to blow one at Castiel. “It’s because I’m weak isn’t it? It’s because I started—”

“—Sammy—” Dean’s voice cut in, sharp and hard like a goddamn knife. “Don’t you dare turn this into a chick flick moment, don’t you dare.”

“It’s because I cry all the time, isn’t it?” Sam said, pushing his chair back, onion clutched close in his hand, and maybe it really was the onion that made his face sour and pucker up and weep like the world was going to shit. “Is that why you’re always calling me Samantha or bitch?” He lurched to Dean, thrust the onion under Dean’s nose until Dean choked and a single tear fell from his blood shot eyes. Sam stared at it, then gripped Dean by the t-shirt, hauled him up from his chair, onion crushing Dean’s collar bone. “Just the one, Dean! Just the one, Precious? The tear master, is that what you are? Too manly to just sit down and—”

Dean pushed him. “Fuck you, Sam.”

Sam spun himself around, fumbled after the bottle. Castiel stood, reaching for it and sliding it out of reach. “I think you’ve had enough.”

Sam crawled over the table, barely landed on his feet on the other side, but maybe that was because Cas steadied him with his hands. Sam waved the mushy, sweating, peeling onion under Cas’s nose. “You smell that, Cas?”

Cas didn’t move and his eyes didn’t widen and they didn’t even get glassy.

“You don’t even cry,” Sam said, mouth open, looking over his shoulder at Dean. “You got no tears, Cas, just like you don’t have sarcasm or irony or—” he tongue fumbled against his teeth— “sass, Cas?”

They were silent, so Sam turned in a slow circle, onion aloft and waving, a goddamn rallying flag. “It’s an onion! How can’t you cry at an onion—you’re one of us— you’re an onion, too—not a petunia.” He looked at Dean with the wet track of his single tear down his cheek, the barest edge of his scar—Castiel’s hand gripping him tight, so tight, bringing him back to Sam after Dean had brought Sam back first, fucking onion skin crumpled and wrinkled in the trash. Then at Castiel, still in his goddamned trench coat, fucking spotless, not even a single bloodstain just like there weren’t any water stains on his face.

Sam dragged his fingers through his hair, probably getting onion juice on his scalp but he didn’t give a fuck. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not good enough, Dean.” And Dean started to get to his feet, so Sam gestured at his own face with the onion. “I’m sorry I can’t just cry a single tear—that I’ve gotta make a mess of it—” because yeah, that was a trail of snot leaking out of his nose, his throat all thick with mucous instead of alcohol, skin fucking wet everywhere.

“Sam,” Castiel said, “give me the onion.”

Sam jerked away from Cas. “You can’t have it, Mr. Sass! Not until—”

But Castiel gripped his wrist with his long fingers, dragged his arm down with angel brute strength, pried the onion from Sam’s hand. Sam followed after him as Cas went to the mini fridge, deposited it on the white wire racks, closed the door with a small click.

“I can’t do it, Dean. You know, I try to control this—” and he gestured at himself, hands empty and light without the onion— “these fucking tears, but I can’t.” His legs wobbled beneath him, stomach dipping low in dizzy confusion, before finally collapsing to the floor, hard and cold against his knees and palms. His breathing was jagged and hard, breath low and rough with alcohol and that raw throat he suddenly got. “I’m a monster.”

Dean’s hand reached for one arm, Castiel’s the other.

“No, you’re not,” one of them said. And then Dean said—and it was definitely Dean even though Sam didn’t see his lips move— “You’re not even a crying petunia, okay? You hear that, Sammy?”

Sam gripped Dean by his wrist, Castiel by the cuff of his shirt. His fingers scrabbled up their limbs until he jerked them down by their collars, huge hands spreading across their neck, their jaws. And just as the pressure in his sinuses threatened to spike again, eyes watering once more because of the onion, the goddamned onion with its flaky skin, crumpling under the least bit of pressure—he spat out, “I’m a tear monster—I—”

And then Dean started talking loudly over him, way too loud, voice a goddamn drill in Sam’s brain as he started telling Cas about why Sam should be kept away from the alcohol as they deposited him on the bed together, and, when his head hit the pillow, Sam was gone, just gone under the alcohol.


End file.
